CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kate
Hi, I’m Kate Cruz, and tonight, I baked Michael Lee a cookie cake and I kissed him.
Okay, kissed is a bit of a stretch, since it lasted for a literal second, maybe less. Honestly, I’ve seen longer blinks. But that kiss is the first time I ever put my mouth on another human being’s mouth. And I am freaking out.
Most people have their first kiss in high school.
If you're from a slightly more conservative household, maybe college. But me? I’m inching toward thirty and have successfully avoided all forms of lip-on-lip interaction.
The only other time I came remotely close was in college, during the University Fair’s fake marriage booth.
The guy leaned in and I bolted. Because even then, even with a plastic veil on my head and a fake bouquet in hand, I couldn’t kiss someone I didn’t love.
I’ve always thought my first kiss would come with a grand confession. A sweeping monologue. Possibly rain. Definitely feelings.
But nope.
Instead, I got: pajamas, cookie crumbs, and an accidental burst of courage that lasted exactly one second and then vanished forever.
So now, instead of basking in the magic of my very first kiss, I am hiding. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. Because I kissed someone who doesn’t like me that way. And worse? I did it without asking. Which makes me a giant red flag.
I sigh. Normally, I’m a hopeless romantic. But now, I’m just… hopeless.
We’re walking together—quietly—to invite people to his home. We pass my house and run into Richard, who’s just locking up the gate. He gives us both a once-over and tilts his head, amused.
“Hey! Happy birthday!” he says, clapping Michael on the back. They bump fists.
Michael grins. “Thanks, man.”
“We’re throwing a small thing at my place,” he adds, “Like a mini get-together.” Weird how he says we when it’s just his house. His birthday.
“Cool, I’ll help you round people up,” Richard says easily. He pulls out his phone and sends a text blast to the neighborhood group. I don’t even know why neither of us thought of that. Probably because we’re both too busy pretending we’re totally fine.
We head toward Lily’s to invite Manang Linda and get some drinks. The closer we get, the louder we hear ‘It Might Be You’ by Stephen Bishop playing on the store’s decades-old speakers.
“Kate!” Manang Linda beams from behind the checkout counter-slash-corner table, where she’s sipping soda from a plastic cup. “You’re finally out of the house! I heard you got food poisoning. What expired ingredient did you eat this time?”
I laugh. “It’s nothing! I’m fine now.”
Manang Linda looks at Michael, then me, and says, “More than fine, from the way I see it.” She smiles teasingly, and adds, “Happy birthday, Mike. Thirty looks good on you.”
He smiles in return. “Thank you,” he says. “We’d like to invite you over to my place. I have cakes,” he says awkwardly.
“‘We?’ Are you really a couple like the tabloids say?” she asks mischievously as she steps out from behind the counter to join us back home.
Thankfully, we don’t need to respond because Richard reemerges. “Look what I found,” he says, wheeling over a squeaky cart that’s seen better decades. It’s filled with soda bottles and just enough beer to raise eyebrows but not alarms. “Do you think this is enough?”
“Are you going to pay for that?” Manang Linda asks, half-scolding, half-amused.
“That rich athlete is,” Richard says with zero shame, jerking his thumb at Michael and pushing the cart past us.
Michael sighs like he’s already used to this kind of treatment. “Just let me know how much I owe,” he tells her, and she nods approvingly as we all start heading back to the house.
The sky has dimmed completely now. The streetlights buzz to life one by one, illuminating our way. The breeze has that Ber-month chill, but not enough to wear a jacket. Just enough to want to hug someone, though.
Not that I’m thinking about that.
On the way to Michael’s house, Manang Linda keeps talking to Richard about this new glassware she got on sale.
Richard thankfully listens intently, so Manang Linda is off our case for now.
Michael is pushing the cart now, and even when he can walk faster, he matches my pace.
Every once in a while, our arms brush, and I feel the echo of that kiss again—not on my mouth, but in my chest.
“You okay?” he murmurs suddenly, as if he can hear my thoughts.
I startle slightly. “Yeah. Just… trying not to combust internally.”
He smiles. “You’re doing great.”
Not everything has to be defined right now. Not every kiss has to lead to something.
When we turn the corner onto his street, the house is already glowing with light. There are shoes on the front steps, the gate’s wide open, and I can hear a medley of familiar voices. There’s laughter, greetings, a guitar strumming something, and someone singing off-key.
“Wow,” Michael mutters, half in awe, half in horror. “They really just... let themselves in, huh?”
“Welcome to small-town hospitality,” I say, grinning.
We walk in together, and immediately, Bon pounces.
“You have so much to tell me,” she says, gripping my forearm with both hands
“I really don’t,” I lie.
She gives me the kind of look that says she knows everything. “You will tell me, one of these days. I promise to ambush you.”
I chuckle as Bon pounces to another person. She’s like that. Loves parties, loves people, loves everything that resembles a confetti box.
When we reach the backyard, I expect to find people in folding chairs or maybe in picnic mats on the floor.
And I’m right. Except it’s not just a gathering of people, it’s now a full-blown party.
The four giant birthday cakes are set up like a shrine on a long folding table.
But beside them is something even more impressive: mismatched serving trays of everyone’s dinner offerings.
There’s sinigang in a rice cooker. Adobo in a plastic container.
Spaghetti, pancit, grilled bangus, and at least two kinds of lumpia.
Michael stares at it, slack-jawed. “I didn’t even invite half these people.”
“They invited themselves,” I say. “But to be fair, you’re sharing your cake. Your giant cakes. Everyone loves that.”
Before I can take a closer look, the speaker (yes, somehow there’s a speaker) turns on. The opening notes of the birthday song blare out, and everyone starts singing. I instinctively step a few paces away from Michael, trying to give him space for his moment. But then—his hand finds my arm.
I glance up, confused.
He’s looking at me, not the crowd. Not the cakes. Me.
And he doesn’t say anything. He just… holds my gaze.
And again, you guessed it, I stayed.
I’m screwed.
When the song finishes, everyone claps, and I do too. When I glance at Michael, he’s already smiling at me, and it makes my chest feel that weird sensation again. Evil little thing. My fingers twitch by my side.
So, fine. I have a crush. Big deal. I’ve had plenty of crushes before. Like… that one guy in college who wore glasses and smelled like cinnamon. It passed. Eventually. Probably.
This will too. It’ll go away.
When he goes away.
Besides, he promised to help me with my ‘charisma.’ So I can attract actual potential boyfriends. Ones who live here permanently. Ones who don’t have sneakers named after them.
We eventually settle down to eat, a weird and wonderful potluck of cake and leftover dinner food. I sit on the edge of a lawn chair, sharing a plate with Bon, who is giving me significant eyebrow raises every time I so much as breathe near Michael.
From a distance I see Ryan arrive, and Bon immediately barrels toward him like they’re not already married, live together, and probably brush their teeth in the same sink.
She throws her arms around him like she hasn’t seen him in years instead of this morning.
And he beams at her like she invented air.
And I think: wow.
I wonder what that feels like. To have someone to barrel toward. Someone who’s a permanent resident amidst your boring weekdays. A co-owner of your fridge, your Wi-Fi, your home. Someone who doesn’t just visit your life, but lives in it.
I mean, sure, I have people. I have Haley, Emily, Bon, my mom, and approximately five hundred voices in my head.
But I’ve never had that one person. The one who makes the most boring habits feel like scenes in a movie.
Like the time Bon shuffled out in Tom and Jerry pajamas and Ryan—without missing a beat—laughed and kissed her like it was the most romantic thing in the world.
Or when Emily tried to cook sinigang and it tasted like sadness, and Joshua still went for a second helping and told her it was still the best food he’s ever had.
I don’t have that.
I don’t have someone who laughs at my lopsided pancakes or makes fun of my mismatched socks or steals my fries without asking. I don’t have inside jokes with anyone. I barely have outside jokes.
But, dammit, I want that.
And then Manang Linda, who’s had one too many sodas (or maybe beers, I can never tell), walks up to the center of the backyard and raises her arms like she’s about to call a town meeting.
“Everybody,” she announces, lifting a plastic cup like she’s at a gala. “Since you’re all conveniently gathered here, Kate has a few announcements about our year-end party!”
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. I beg your pardon?
Not that I don’t have the details yet, but I was going to email people. Maybe print out flyers and stealthily slip them through gates like the mailman who delivers electric bills. Not mid-birthday cake bite at someone else’s party.
I start to stand, flustered. “I—um—”
But Michael stands before I can.
“I’ll do it,” he says, his voice clear and confident. “Katie’s still busy munching.” He looks at me and gives the tiniest smirk.
Immediately, a chorus of “yieeeeeeeeee” erupts from various aunties, teenagers, and at least one of my former students. Frieda from across the street even says, “So you are a couple!”
“We’re not!” I say, loudly.
Everyone ignores me.
“Anyway,” Michael says, clapping his hands to get their attention again.
“The year-ender will be sometime during the second week of December, before everyone disappears for the holidays. The theme is prom. So that means gowns, tuxedos, and corsages. So choose a prom date wisely.” He looks at me with an eyebrow raise to confirm if he’s saying the right things. I nod absentmindedly.
And then I look away. Because my insides have turned to gelatin and my cheeks have turned cherry red.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bon tucked into Ryan’s side, laughing at something only the two of them could possibly find funny.
I blink—and for a split second, I imagine myself like that too.
Leaning into someone. Sharing inside jokes.
Maybe even slow dancing under backyard string lights with…
someone tall. Probably an athlete. Maybe one who was attacked by my cat and likes cookie cake.
I shake the thought away. Hard.
And then I take another bite of the basketball-themed cake—which earlier tasted perfectly fine, but now tastes like plain flour.
Great. I’m spiraling so hard even cake isn’t safe.
This is what I get for kissing my neighbor.
Nice work, Katherine. Truly thriving.